Esther screamed, clapped her hands and danced in the dog-cart. She was dimly conscious that Bob Griffin was dancing also and patting her on the back. Tom Doane and Frank Cahoon were performing one-legged jigs on the hubs of the wheels. The crowd was wild. And then the Townsend span, who, quite unnoticed had been dancing with the rest, started to run. Doane and Cahoon fell to the ground, of course. Esther was thrown back to the seat; so was Bob Griffin. The crowd, those of its members standing nearest, scrambled headlong to avoid being hit or run over. The dog-cart bounced and rocked along the road. It did not travel far. Young Griffin, beyond a startled grunt of surprise when the jerk threw him upon the seat, did not utter a word. He recovered his balance, leaned over the rocking dashboard, seized the trailing reins and, after a short struggle, pulled the horses to a walk and then to a standstill. Another moment and a dozen pair of hands were clutching at the bridles and voices were demanding to know if any one was hurt. Doane and Cahoon were among the first to reach the carriage. When they learned that no harm had been done their elation at Claribel’s victory overcame all other feelings. “We licked ’em, didn’t we, Esther,” crowed the exultant Thomas. “By thunder! I thought we were gone when that breeching broke. But we weren’t! Ho, ho! Pretty fair horses we have over here in Harniss; eh, Bob? And pretty good drivers, too!” Griffin was out of breath, but laughing. “Good enough!” he admitted. “Of course, _I_ didn’t care who won. If it had been a Denboro horse now--” Frank Cahoon’s derisive howl cut him short. “Oh, no!” he shouted. “_You_ didn’t care! Did you see him jumping up and down, Esther? Ho, ho! Say, Bob! What do you suppose your grandfather ’Lisha would have said if he’d seen you rooting for a Foster Townsend horse? Oh, ho! Why--” He did not finish the sentence. The crowd behind him had parted. Foster Townsend himself was standing at his elbow. The great man was not as calmly dignified as usual. He was out of breath and his expression was one of alarm and anxiety. He pushed young Cahoon aside--as a matter of fact, Frank was only too eager to escape--and came to the side of the dog-cart. “Are you all right, Esther?” he demanded, sharply. “Not hurt or anything?” Esther was a little pale, but as much from the excitement of the race as from the short-lived runaway. “Oh, not a bit, Uncle Foster,” she declared. “Not a bit, truly. I am all right.” “Sure you are? That’s good. Where is that Smalley boy? I told him to look out for these horses. Where is he?” Josiah was on his way home and not lingering by the way. “Who stopped them after they started?” demanded Townsend. Hands and tongues indicated Griffin. “Humph! I’m much obliged to you. You kept your head, I judge, and that is a lot.... Humph! You aren’t a Harniss boy, are you? What is your name?” Bob hesitated. Esther supplied the information.